


Love Like Yours

by YamiSnuffles



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Background Crowley, Hopeful Ending, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Scene: Soho 1967 (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:01:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21865645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YamiSnuffles/pseuds/YamiSnuffles
Summary: 'He forced his voice over the growing lump in his throat. “You go too fast for me, Crowley.”At that, Aziraphale got out of his seat and left the car. He took a few steps and then a few more. He felt less sure of his choice every moment.'-Aziraphale grapples with his decision to give Crowley holy water and what it represents for them both.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 55





	Love Like Yours

Aziraphale could barely hear what Crowley was saying- what he himself was thinking- for the blood that pounded in his ears. His heart’s terrified staccato was the sound of coming doom. He had to keep his hands folded in his lap to stop them from shaking. It was bad enough the way they’d quivered as he handed over the thermos, the way his voice quivered still over uneasy breaths, he didn’t need to fall apart completely.

Despite the sunglasses between them, he felt like he was unspooling under Crowley’s gaze. Perhaps because of them. Those particular spectacles, large and round, had an oddly emotive quality to them. Crowley was all eyes and protruding bottom lip and pleading eyebrows. Aziraphale suddenly understood what the demon meant when he complained about Aziraphale giving a particular _look_. It felt impossible to deny Crowley anything he wanted at that moment.

But Aziraphale had to deny him. To deny them both. As much as he wanted to take that final step over the edge and fall headfirst into whatever was to come, he couldn’t. Not yet.

He forced his voice over the growing lump in his throat. “You go too fast for me, Crowley.”

At that, Aziraphale got out of his seat and left the car. He took a few steps and then a few more. He felt less sure of his choice every moment. One step forward had him wishing he hadn’t given Crowley the holy water at all. The next, he wanted nothing more than to dive back into the car, take the demon up on his offer, and never look back. These opposing desires instead saw him rooted in place by indecision.

He watched the Bentley, listened as the engine rumbled to life, and then watched Crowley disappear into the night. Aziraphale waited until Crowley was well and truly gone before he miracled himself back into his shop. It was the definition of frivolous, given how close it was, but he couldn’t trust his feet to carry him there.

Indeed, the moment he was back in the shop, he collapsed back against the door. He slid downward. The sounds of the Soho night were as loud as ever. People laughed, shouted, and chattered in the streets. Strains of music drifted and mixed from different locales, each a siren song for some hedonistic diversion. Aziraphale had come to love it all for what it was- proof of human vitality and fallibility. It was all so very alive and at the moment, he couldn’t stand any of it. He couldn’t help but strain to hear the familiar purr of the Bentley, for proof that Crowley was still well. A snap of his fingers and silence fell over the shop.

It didn’t take long to realize what a mistake that was. Without any other sound, Aziraphale was left with his thoughts. He wondered if Crowley was home yet. Given how Crowley liked to speed down the road, it seemed likely he was at least well on his way. But there was a chance his recklessness had finally gotten the better of him and he’d crashed. No doubt Crowley wouldn’t have taken proper care with the thermos and it would have been jettisoned out of the seat, cracked open, and spilled.

Aziraphale bit his wobbling lip hard enough that he tasted blood. It was a much needed focus. He couldn’t think like that. He’d blessed every molecule of that thermos to protect it from breaking. He’d been tempted to ward it against being opened at all, but that would have been a show of bad faith. He had to trust Crowley. He needed to believe that it wasn’t a suicide pill. He also needed more than anything to believe that no matter Crowley’s original intent, that he hadn’t pushed the demon to use it as one. An angel could not despair.

Aziraphale had tried to offer hope. It had been a difficult thing to do, when he barely had any himself some days. But, demon or not, Crowley was often more optimistic than him. After all, he’d been nursing feelings for God only knew how long, while Aziraphale had only realized the depth of his own for a scant few decades and had found it nearly unbearable.

He tried to take a bracing breath. Instead it caught in his throat, stuttered and stuck and came back out as a sob. He tried so hard, so often to keep all such feelings stuffed safely out of sight but the more he tried to stifle them, the more insistent they became. He was too exhausted to keep up the facade and there was no one around to see, anyway, so he allowed himself to weep in earnest. He remained huddled against the door, shoulders shaking and tears flowing.

Aziraphale wasn’t sure how long he stayed that way, only that millenia old joints eventually protested his position on the floor. He hiccupped and wiped his face with the back of his hand. A tear caught on the tip of one of his fingers. He held it level to his eyes and stared at in a detached way. How strange the human body was, how odd that working out tear ducts a bit could be cathartic.

Light from the fluorescence outside caught on the tear and Aziraphale’s hand started to shake at the way it shone. The problem was, he wasn’t human. Was he with his human corporation full of so much liquid also full, by virtue of the celestial essence that enlivened it, of holy water? Was there any part of him that didn’t threaten Crowley’s existence?

It was a ridiculous thought. He knew it was instantly. He’d spilt blood, tears, and more in Crowley’s presence over the millenia without any trauma, beyond perhaps an emotional toll for some. But wasn’t there some truth to it? While he may not be a physical threat to Crowley, everything else about him was dangerous. He was an angel. His very presence in Crowley’s life was a threat. They were _supposed_ to be hereditary enemies and instead they were…

He should have never let it get to this point. They should never have become friends let alone something… something… more. So much more. He should never have agreed to the Arrangement. He’d let the allure of regular companionship cloud his better sense. He’d known it was a terrible idea all along. If not for the Arrangement, Crowley never would have needed ‘insurance’ against Hell’s retribution. If not for the Arrangement, Aziraphale could have kept a safe distance and gone on pretending they were tied by nothing more than a shared enmity. He never would have found himself in the bombed out remains of a church without anything left to hide behind, just him and his books and the demon he loved.

Who was he kidding? Arrangement or not, they’d found each other again and again. Crowley had always been there when he most needed someone. Even without the Arrangement, that careless, ridiculous serpent probably would have braved consecrated ground to save him, risked destruction simply so Aziraphale wouldn’t be inconvenienced.

It was a wonder to Aziraphale that he’d been able to lie to himself for so long about his feelings because he loved Crowley so terribly that it often frightened him. Something electric had torn through him when their hands had met over that leather case of books. Standing in the dust of what had once been, his love for Crowley had been the only thing left in him. And it had been terrifying. It was terrifying still. He was made for love, yes, but love for Her _first_ and for everything else in a much more general sense. But there was nothing wide and encompassing about this love beyond the way it consumed him. 

Aziraphale found he could no longer breathe. Air came quick and shallow into his lungs and his chest ached for more but he could do nothing to right the situation. The more he fought against it, the shallower the breaths became. His heart raced in response and his vision swam. When he tried to pull himself off the ground to sit in a chair instead, his legs also gave way beneath him.

Tears fell again and he was left cursing the weakness of his corporation. It had made him too human. He didn’t even need to breathe and yet his entire body ached for want of it. Worse, his foolish, fragile heart was an agony of mixed desires. He wished Crowley would finally be sensible and stay away for good. He wished Crowley was there with him then, holding him and soothing him and saving him from himself once more.

Aziraphale let out a small, choked cry as he curled in on himself on the floor. He longed to pray that his suffering be taken away but who was he to ask God to relieve him of a love he was never meant to have? And if his prayers were actually answered, what would that mean for Crowley? He shuddered to think of what Heaven would do if his feelings were found out. He might be able to spin it, to say he had drawn a demon to the light. There was no way Crowley could do the same, not now that he bore a weapon as viciously destructive against his own kind as holy water. There was no plausible deniability. No slithering into the shadows if he was discovered. And Aziraphale had made it possible, so it was down to him to keep Crowley safe from the consequences of this impossible love.

Which meant, right now, he needed to pull himself together. He squeezed his eyes shut against scorching tears that still wanted to fall and focused only on breathing. His entire world was boiled down to the movement of his lungs. He forced them to slow, to really draw in the air that his body was at this point screaming for. It took some doing, but eventually he got to the point of being able to fill his lungs completely, hold the breath there, and then release it in a measured fashion. In turn, every other rogue function in his corporation fell in line. The beat of his heart returned to the rhythm he’d grown accustomed to and strength returned to enfeebled limbs.

Aziraphale unfurled aching joints and pushed himself back up to his feet. He smoothed his rumpled trousers with his palms but his comforting ritual was interrupted when he didn’t find the familiar shape of his bowtie. He’d traded it in for the night, his usual buttoned up exterior softened in an attempt to portray a calm he certainly didn’t feel. He’d even splashed on some cologne and done up his hair. All a bit of a masquerade, when he thought about it. A mask that said, “Here’s what we could be. What we could have, a fine night out on the town just you and I. Someday. Not today, but someday.”

A snap of his fingers, and the lot of it was replaced with fresh clothes. He clutched his soft housecoat close. It all smelled of books and dust, traces of his soap and whiffs of angelic ozone. The rich smell of leather, of smoke and spice and everything demonic, was gone. He felt its loss the way he felt the loss of his own wings when they were tucked away. Just as those wings were hidden for the sake of the humans, so too would this part of him be hidden away for the sake of another. 

He would just have to believe that there would come a day when he wouldn’t have to play act or hint any longer, when he could stop lying to himself and everyone else. And if he doubted such a day would ever come, then he would believe in Crowley. Dear Crowley and his inexplicable ability to defy the odds at every turn. Not what an angel should be nor a demon, an impossible creature who made stars and then himself.

Someday their day would come. Someday.

Until then, Aziraphale thought a long, warm bath was in order. Perhaps a trip to the coast to clear his head. Maybe, just maybe, he’d also ponder what he’d like to take on a picnic or order at the Ritz.

**Author's Note:**

> This was going to be pure angst but I'm weak and it had to have a hopeful end lol.


End file.
